


In Sweet Water

by tarie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:58:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Harry needs you, James.  And you need him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sweet Water

**Author's Note:**

> Written for as part of 2007 . Headers derived from Erikson’s [Developmental Stages](http://www.learningplaceonline.com/stages/organize/Erikson.htm). I doubt this is what he intended them for. Oh well! Many thanks to my fantastic and very thorough betas.

"In sweet water there is a pleasure ungrudged by anyone."  
Ovid, 13 A.D.

**Trust vs Mistrust**

Heat kills.

James isn’t sure how _high_ the temperature had to be for that to happen, but that is of no matter. What _does_ matter is that heat can and will kill. Moreover, he could be its next victim.

His house is hot.

James thinks he is bloody well going to die from the heat, but he knows better than to cast a Cooling Charm. Lily would have had his arse in a sling for it; she insists the babby will catch cold and that James will just have to _suffer_. And so suffer he does. The air is heavy and sticks to his skin in ways and places that make him feel entirely uncouth, and not in the fun way. 

Sulking, and having decided Evans needed to see for herself what cruel and unusual punishment she was inflicting on her darling husband, James climbs the stairs and pads to the loo. 

As he approaches the open door, the sounds of splashing and laughter reach his ears. Despite his irritation with being hot and forced to suffer for it as though he had done something particular vile and needed punishment, James smiles. Their boy loves the bath. James reckons he’d be dead chuffed to stay in there until the water went cold and his skin gone completely pruney. 

“Having a time of it, are we?” James comments, and Lily jumps.

“Huh!” she exclaims, shooting him a startled and somewhat scandalized look over her shoulder. “Would it be too much to announce your presence in some way rather than lurking like a shoddy, pervy toerag?” 

“But you like me best when I’m a shoddy, pervy toerag,” James murmurs, and in a beat he is pressing against her back, chin resting on her shoulder. “Don’t deny it, Evans.”

“I can’t,” Lily says in a tone that rather suggests she wishes she could. 

One corner of James’ mouth curls up victoriously, gaze drifting down to the portable tub on the counter. “Of course you can’t,” he practically purrs, eyes dancing as Harry’s chubby fists arc downward and slice through the water’s surface, sending a spray upward, outward, and every other sort of –ward.

“He’s fast,” Lily comments, canting her head to the side to steal a quick kiss.

“Just like his da,” James says proudly, thinking of himself on the Quidditch Pitch.

“I certainly hope not.” There is a dirty bird tint to her voice and Lily sniggers.

“Oi!” James protests, offended. 

“Faster than a speeding shooting star!” Lily crows, twisting away from James to borrow a bit of Harry’s bathwater, splashing it in his father’s direction.

Shaking his hair out like a wet dog, James reaches for her, encircling her waist with his arm before she can pull back. “I’ll show you just how opposite of fast I can be,” he growls playfully, nipping at her collarbone. In the tub, Harry continues to splash and squeal, and James thinks the entire moment is better than perfect.

“Watch close, Harry old boy. Your dad’s gonna teach you how to tame a bird and get her to sing on cue,” James boasts. Feeling quite smug about it all, he wrings out the sponge with his free hand and sets about wiping down Harry’s round belly.

“Don’t you listen to a word he says, Harry,” Lily interrupts. “It’s all lies.”

James can tell she isn’t annoyed, though, as she lays one hand on his shoulder while the other covers James’ hand and the sponge.

“Not all of it, Evans,” James says off-handedly as they smooth the sponge down one of Harry’s chubby legs.

“That’s ‘Potter’ to you, toerag.”

“Cheeky skirt.”

“Just the way you like them.”

**Autonomy vs Shame**

He’s still got a bit of his baby fat. James watches how it jiggles as Harry’s small feet propel him across the sand, an almost lazy spray of granules kicking up behind his heels. 

James laughs into the hazy air, salt-laden and humid as anything. Beside him, Lily peers over the top of her _Daily Prophet_ to see what James is laughing about. The rag, James notices, unfortunately covers up most of Lily’s expanse of glorious skin barely concealed by a green two-piece. He knew he should’ve tossed that in the bin before Lily had a chance to stick it in the beach hamper. 

A hiss of flame and the crackling of paper sound like bloody music to his ears. The smell of burning tobacco permeates the air. James inhales deeply, getting his fill of it. The smoke burns his lungs bright like the sun, and today Harry lords over the Kingdom of the Sea like a Prince while the King and Queen of Everything look on.

They have been here for hours, lording over it all. Laughing and lounging alternately in the sea and on the sand. The sun begins to dip, pink-cheeked and red lipped, below the horizon, and the elder Potters rise in honor of her glory.

Life feels fine. Perfect, even. And for the first time in a long while, James feels utterly content, all thanks to Brighton and Its Sea.

Content.

Brighton is brilliant this way, and Lily even more so for the suggestion of the mini-holiday. 

Content. Even so, it’s time to go home. James has an appointment with Dumbledore in the morning, bright and bloody early. He’ll need a proper amount of rest to be able to put up with all that twinkling at such an ungodly hour.

With the flick of a wrist, the butt is tossed through the air. The arc of barely-there orange and a trail of blue-grey smoke trace its path. The orange and blue-grey disappear, snuffed out, in a soft plop as the butt lands in the sand. Exhaling, James knees down slowly, discretely Banishing the rubbish. “Oi, c’mon, Harry!” James calls to the shoreline.

“We’re going home now, love,” Lily adds, beginning to pack up the hamper.

“But Muuuuuuuuuuuum,” Harry’s complaint drifts up, his high-pitched little boy whine carried above the crashing of the waves. 

“But Muuuuuuuuuuuum,” James repeats, a roguish wink shot Lily’s way as he jogs down to where their boy, The Little Prince, is. By the time he gets to the shore, Harry is scampering down to where the waves are crashing and rolling in. The water is nearly up to his waist, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. 

“Lookit, Daddy!” Harry raises his arms above his head, a grin curving his mouth.

“What exactly ‘m I lookin’ at, Harry?” James asks, bemused.

Just then Harry throws his small dark head back and James gasps. The sinking sun isn’t quite gone yet, and her light glints off of Harry’s face, outlines Harry’s small body, and James is reminded of Apollo. 

Not the Little Prince. The Little Sun God, more like. 

Harry straightens, Apollo no more, laughing a little as he splashes in the direction of the shore. “I’m the King of the Sea, that’s what you’re lookin’ at, Daddy,” Harry says, as though it should be obvious. 

“Should Mum and I start calling you Poseidon, then?” James teases, crouching down, arms wide open.

“Daaaaaaaaaaad,” Harry protests, the water pushing him toward the shore. It isn’t long before he’s running, running, running, baby fat jiggling merrily as Harry propels himself forward.

When he gets close enough, James scoops Harry up. Harry’s arms immediately wind around James’ neck, small arms nearly choking him but he doesn’t mind – though he does walk very slowly back to Lily. 

“Daddy.” Harry’s breath is hot against his ear, his boy’s salt water-slicked skin sticky against his own.

“Yeah, mate?

“Today was a very, very, _very_ good day.”

**Purpose**

_“…Courtauld passes the Quaffle to Poindexter, Poindexter showing quite a bit of skill on the broom there, naaaaaaaarrowly dodging the Bludger sent her way courtesy of Izzard and—oh _cor_ , Empson’s gone and—”_

“JAMES HARFOOT POTTER!”

Ear glued to the wireless, James doesn’t bother to look up, but rather waves a hand over his shoulder.

_“…Seeker Avery has spotted the Snitch but, oh ho, so’s Falmouth Seeker Roke. It’s a—”_

The announcer’s voice cuts out abruptly and James swivels in his chair just as quickly.

“The game!” he cries, gesturing wildly toward the WWN. “I’ve got twenty Galleons riding on this!” He starts for the wireless but doesn’t get very far; Lily Banishes the bloody thing across the room. It hits the wall with a bang and makes a warbling sound until all noise tapers off completely. “Fucking hell! What did y’ do that for?!

_Calm. I must remain Calm and show Bloody Brilliant Poise. Will ask Sirius or Peter for the score later. Correction. Will ask Sirius. Peter probably switched to sodding_ Diagon Alley Damsels _in the middle of the fucking thing._

“James Harfoot Potter,” Lily repeats, her voice much quieter this time round. When she uses that tone, it’s Certain Death, James knows.

Some very serious counteracting is in order. _Right. Will not obsess over possible Quidditch score. May about to be hexed, must look Incredibly Sharp._

“Lily Isobel Evans Potter,” James purrs, reaching a hand out for his wife.

Unfortunately, she’s still shooting daggers. “Did I, or did I not, specifically ask you to talk to Sirius Bighead Black?” she asks, red colouring her cheeks. It’s dead sexy, really.

“Of course I talked to him; he’s my best mate,” James demurs, not having a clue in seven hells what she’s on about. Patting his lap, he says, “C’mere, Skirt. I’ve got a few things I’d like to say to you.”

James can tell she’s fighting it, but he sees the way her lips curve up at the corners. Trying to sound no-nonsense (and not quite getting there), she continues, “Did you talk to him about Harry’s birthday?” 

_Fuck_.

“Yeah,” James says, and even as the word is out of his mouth he _knows_ it sounds as crap as it is.

“Oh, I see.” Lily shakes her head, eyes flashing dangerously. “So you talked to him about what not give Harry for his eighth birthday? Told him under no circumstances to give Harry anything remotely resembling something that could get him into that ‘up to no good’ tripe you lot are so very well skilled at?”

He swallows hard, stymieing the _lielaughtershitshitshit_ from seeing the light of day.

“Don’t,” Lily says scathingly, holding up a hand, “even try to deny it, James. I know you didn’t because—”

The pounding of feet and then the flushed, panting form of their messy-haired son interrupt. “Dad! Dad!” Harry gasps, a disheveled-looking parcel cradled against his chest, his thin frame leaning against the doorway for support. “Guess what Uncle Sirius got me for a birthday pressie!”

“Cursed Christmas Crackers?” James ventures a guess, smiling broadly over at Lily.

“No,” son and wife say at the same time, though Harry sounds much more enthusiastic about the whole thing than his mum.

“Water pistols!” Harry says excitedly, tossing the brown wrapping paper on the ground. “See? _See_?” 

“Bloody—Padfoot—WATER PISTOLS!” James nearly shrieks, practically tripping over himself in his own excitement as he crosses to Harry. “Let me see what you’ve got there, eh?”

“Sure thing, Dad.” Harry rips open the end of the box, passing one of the pair to James. 

“Good old Padfoot,” James practically cackles, turning the plastic thing over in his hands. “Good idear, too. It’s hot as a tick on a hippogriff in Hell.”

“Not ‘good old Padfoot’,” Lily interjects, disapproval etched all over her face. 

“But I really like them,” Harry says quietly, pushing his glasses back up his nose. 

Lily’s face softens then, and James knows she’s a goner. She loves the hell out of their kid and, while she’s stubborn and hard on him sometimes, she can rarely say ‘no’ when she knows it’s something important to him.

“All right,” she relents, and James crows, throwing his hands up in the air victoriously. Harry follows suit. Both of them freeze when Lily gives them A Look. “None of that in the house though, understood? We’ve too many nice things from your grandparents and magic can’t fix everything.”

“Yes, Mum,” Harry mumbles, and then he flings himself against her, arms wrapping around her waist. “Thank you.”

“It’s all right, baby,” Lily says quietly, smoothing down Harry’s unruly hair, and James smiles as he taps the two pistols with his wand, filling them with water. “Love you.”

“And I love you, Lily,” James breaks in, and then he promptly squirts her in the neck with one of Harry’s pistols.

“OI!” she bellows, and Harry laughs, disentangling himself from his mum.

“Boy, catch!” James shouts, tossing the other one to Harry. Then he’s out the back door, running as though his life depends on it. 

Behind him, he can hear the thumping of two sets of feet on the ground, mad laughter and, “ _Accio Water Pistol_!”

Though he tries to keep his grip on the butt of the gun, James cannot best Lily’s summoning; the pistol wrenches itself free, flying over his shoulder so fast it nearly nicks him. And then there is a brief sting in the centre of his back, accompanied by a burst of water.

“I’m hit! I’m hit!” James cries, sinking to his knees. 

Harry cuts in front of him, his round face red and twisted from laughing so hard, gun hanging at his side. “Mum got you good!” Harry guffaws.

Lily is standing right behind him; James can feel her warmth. Just as she begins to snicker, thoroughly giving his hair a bath courtesy of Sirius’ water pistol, James grins. “She always does.”

**Industry vs Inferiority**

James is tired of gaining sympathies and catching ‘poor fellow’ looks from across the room. He doesn’t want or need their sympathies. He doesn’t want or need their pity.

All James needs is for his wife to be fucking _all right_ , not in a coffin six feet under and two plots away from her parents, dirt so fresh atop her casket that James can still smell it. Christ, he can still smell _her_. He can still see her. 

The first time he saw her, she’d been sitting in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express. If anyone had asked, he wouldn’t have been able to recall if anyone else had been in it with her; all he could see was her. Her hair was longer and brighter and more vibrantly red than anything he’d ever seen before that very moment. And when she’d turned to look at him with eyes so brilliant and green he’d thought he had tripped head-first into a vast meadow, that was the moment James knew he would marry her. 

The last time he saw her, Dumbledore had been lowering the lid on her casket. That was an hour ago, though it seems to James like he’s experienced a lifetime of loneliness since then. He will never love another woman like he loved Lily Evans.

“James.”

A warm, strong hand claps about his shoulder. James knocks back another glass of Firewhisky, ignoring it. “Don’t.”

“James, you have to—”

“I don’t have to do _anything_ , Sirius!” he finally explodes, whirling around to glare into his best mate’s eyes. “Lily’s fucking dead, okay? I’m not going back out there—” James jerked a thumb toward the drawing room. “—so just stop. I don’t need anyone else to tell me how _sorry_ they are, to offer to bloody _help_ , so—”

“Shut up,” Sirius hisses, wrestling the glass away from James. 

James doesn’t have the strength to fight back, to reclaim the cup. Leaning back against the counter, he puts his head in his hands. Everything hurts.

“You have to go outside. Get some fresh air,” Sirius says shortly.

“No.”

“Harry needs you, James. And you need him.”

_Oh, God._ Harry _._

Dragging his hands down his face, James stares over at Sirius. Everything is blurry. It hurts to focus.

“He’s outside, James. You know where.”

“Yeah,” James says thickly.

“Go on then. Remus and Pete and I will take care of things here,” Sirius says, already walking toward the drawing room.

Harry is sitting at the edge of the small pond round the back of their property, just like James knew he would be. His small shoulders are slumped in defeat. As James sits silently down beside Harry, he can hear him sniffling.

They sit in the quiet together for some time, both staring out at the water’s smooth surface. If James concentrates on focussing, he can almost see Lily’s face in the water there. Vision blurs once twice before slowly carefully painfully putting all the pieces together. Mouth hanging open, James leans forward as reds and creams and greens start to light before his eyes. She’s there, in the water, trying to tell him something, and—

Plop! Splash!

Just like that, the picture dissolves. James reels back, staring open-mouthed at Harry.

Harry’s eyes are red, puffy. Bloodshot. They likely see nothing but the collection of smooth pebbles in the palm of his hand, though James sees everything.

James sees how much his son aches and it makes _him_ ache on the inside, like someone’s carved a large, cavernous hole inside him and nothing will be able to fill it up no matter how much he needs it to be filled.

Harry’s barely a few days past ten and he’s aged ten years in the span of the three days since Lily died.

“Gimme one of those stones, won’t you?” James mutters. 

Harry wordlessly presses one in James’ palm. A beat, and then James’ fingers curl over it, the cool smoothness doing nothing to calm him.

“Dad,” Harry says hoarsely. 

“Son,” James breathes. He exhales. He inhales. And that fucking hole gets just a little bigger.

A sudden flick of the wrist. Skip skip skip spa-lunk. The water’s surface is disturbed, rippling. It moves as though it’s crying out for help, searching for someone, something, anything to help soothe it.

There isn’t anything to be done about it. What’s done is done and there isn’t a damned thing anyone can do.

A great, gut-wrenching sob sounds beside him. James turns his head just in time to see Harry lob the lot of the stones toward the centre of the pond. A mighty splash sounds and then Harry is pressed against his chest, glasses digging into James’ shoulder.

It strikes James then just how much of a little boy Harry still is, no matter if Lily and he had been commenting on how big Harry was getting anymore. Harry is small for his age, thin and wiry, but James knows he’s fast as anything when he runs and faster still on a broom (though James had not let on to Lily that he’d been letting Harry try out his racing broom). He’s full of energy and creativity and spark. He feels things deeply and always speaks his mind in the way children do, with utmost honesty.

James can’t help himself. Holding Harry, knowing Harry’s got Lily’s eyes and her kindness and her stubbornness, his eyes begin to sting, to become wet with tears and regret and longing for what can never be again.

“It’s just us now,” James says dully, voice muffled against Harry’s hair.

Harry tilts his head back, staring up at James in a determined way that painfully reminds him of Lily. “That’s all we can be, Dad.” 

**Identity vs Role Confusion**

Second year already.

Tomorrow Harry will be leaving for year two at Hogwarts. James can scarcely believe it’s that time again, nor that he’ll be taking Harry in the morning to King’s Cross for the second year in a row. Pity Lily never got to send Harry off. She would have been so proud of him, beyond thrilled that he’d both got the letter _and_ been sorted into Gryffindor like both his parents. 

It’s just James and Harry now.

Lily was always the more responsible parent. She was the one to make sure Harry had washed behind his ears, eaten his vegetables, brushed his teeth and all that, while James was the one to sneak in some broom riding or horse about with. James has had to learn to do the things Lily did. He’s acting as Dad and Mum now because that’s how it is.

It’s late. 

When he’d checked an hour ago, Harry still hadn’t been finished packing. It was time for Harry to get to bed or else James would never be able to rouse him on time in the morning.

Carrying a goblet of water, James heads down the hall toward Harry’s room. After dropping off the water and wishing Harry a good night, James intends to turn in himself. He had a long meeting at work that morning and is fairly exhausted. Tomorrow will be another long day, starting much earlier than usual.

“Hey, mate,” James says, twisting the knob. Pushing the door open, the hinges creaking slight, he continues, “I’ve got your drink. How goes the pa—” Funny, James would later think, how quickly one can lose the power of speech, et cetera, when completely, utterly, totally surprised by something-or-other.

James blinks, dimly aware that his hand is no longer holding the goblet. It has fallen to the floor, no longer whole but in dozens upon dozens of minute pieces instead. Water clings to the fabric of his trousers upon his calves in places, soaking through to the skin in others.

In the middle of his four-poster, open trunk at the foot of it, is Harry. His head has fallen back; his eyes are closed and his skin is so very flushed. Harry’s small mouth held steady in an ‘o’ as his hand fisted slowly, awkwardly over and over himself.

Upon hearing the goblet shatter, Harry’s eyes fly open, his hand freezing.

James isn’t sure who is redder – Harry or himself.

“Clean up and get to bed,” James hears himself say. “We’ve got an early morning of it.”

Harry mumbles something in response, but James doesn’t hear it. With a quick flick of his wand, he’s taken care of the goblet mess and races off for his own bedroom.

He can barely slam the door behind him fast enough. Pressing his shoulders against it hard, James reaches down to the zip on his trousers. A few agonizing moments later, his trousers are down around his thighs, pants shoved down far enough to release his cock. Running his thumb across the head, James presses it against the slit, teasing it. Already he can feel the tension begin to mount in his balls. Oh God, but Harry’s his _son_ and he shouldn’t be—Fingers form a circle and then begin to fist tightly, pump pump pumping hard and then fast and then hard again. He can feel the length of his cock moving against the lines in his palm. Everything begins to spin out of control – Harry is growing up and there isn’t anything he can _do_ about it – and he shouldn’t be thinking about Harry but for some reason he just can’t stop. His thighs begin to tremble -- _green eyes like Lily’s, a spirit all his own, leaving me for another year don’t think I can take it_ \-- and then a tremendous cry forces its way out of his chest as wet, sticky warmth spurts all over his hand. 

All because of Harry.

“Fuck.”

**Intimacy and Solidary vs Isolation**

“C’mon, Dad,” Harry urges, looking back over his shoulder at James as though silently adding, “You slow old arse.”

“I’m running as fast as I bloody well can!” James huffs, jogging behind his son. His footing is uneven in the sand, slowing him down even more. He can’t possibly keep up with Harry; Harry is fifteen and fucking _fast_ while James is thirty-five and definitely not as fit as he was when Harry was four, the last time they’d been at this beach.

Last time they’d been there with Lily. It’d been her idea for the mini-break. This time around it was Harry’s. “It’ll be my early birthday present,” he’d wheedled, and James hadn’t been able to bloody well say no. Merlin, if Lily hadn’t ever been able to deny Harry anything, James sure as hell couldn’t either. 

In a few short weeks Harry would be back at Hogwarts for his sixth year (and a prefect for the second year in a row). So really, James did want to spend as much quality time with his boy as he could. It hadn’t been too difficult to give in. Secretly, though, James wished Harry would have selected a different beach. But no, it had to be Brighton, so Brighton it was.

“Under here,” Harry calls before ducking beneath the dock. 

Panting a little, James catches up a minute or two later and follows suit. His head tips back, eyes studying the slats overhead. Sunlight slips through the cracks and spills upon their forms. When James looks over at Harry and the way the light plays upon his face, he is reminded of a small boy amid the sea, lit up like Apollo though he’d rather be Poseidon. The Little Sun God isn’t so little anymore. 

“What’re we doing under here?” James asks curiously. Thinking back to a boyhood holiday or two here of his own – long summer days of salt and seaweed and laughter and queer Muggle fags that made his eyes tired and stomach insatiable, he adds mischievously, “Have you got a spliff for your old man?”

“What?” Harry’s eyes round and he shakes his head a little too vehemently. “No. No! _Dad_. It’s nothing like that.”

“What’s it like, then?”

“Just, I wanted-- _This_.” James hadn’t even realised Harry had been cupping something in his hand until he opened them, revealing a Snitch with its wings all aflutter. “Catch!” Having said that, Harry pushes his hands up, forcing the Snitch to launch.

With a great big laugh, the kind that starts low in your belly and bubbles up until you can’t stand it anymore, James launches himself after it. Reaching reaching yearning almost—ah ha!

“That’s a boy,” Harry crows, adopting the tone James has used more than once at Harry’s Quidditch games.

“When you’ve got it, you’ve got it. It doesn’t piss off to the wayside, kiddo,” James grins. “Your turn.”

The Snitch zooms off with Harry in hot pursuit. There is sand on the back of Harry’s legs where there is a sunburn on James’. Through the smudge of fingerprints and saltwater, James watches as his boy easily plucks the Snitch from the air. With a swagger James had seen in Lily more than once, Harry makes a beeline for him, a smug smile creating a broad line beneath his specs. 

“Wanna make things interesting?” Harry asks, that smug smile transforming into a smirk,

“Sure,” James says easily, his curiosity piqued. 

“Whoever doesn’t catch the Snitch next has to do the dishes for the rest of the summer.” 

James snorts; that’s by far Harry’s least favorite chore round the house.

“Without magical means,” Harry adds.

“Woooooah,” James says teasingly. “Quite a bet there, mate. Guess you oughta invest in some of those Muggle rubber gloves soon, eh?”

“We’ll see about that,” Harry says loftily. Holding the Snitch high above his head, he locks eyes with James. “On three.”

Oh, but James is ready. He might not be as quick as Harry but he’s got at least twenty more years of experience horsing about with a Snitch (it had been, after all, his display of choice when trying to impress the flock of birds back in his Hogwarts days).

“Show me what you’ve got, poppet,” James taunts, crouching low, eyes shifting to stare at the fluttering white wings of the Snitch.

“Sure thing, crone,” Harry retorts, laughter ringing around the edges of the syllables. “One. Two. And three!”

Just like that, they are off. Sand sprays up behind them, their legs – long lean kissed brown by the sun – pumping furiously as they race under the dock. Weaving around the support poles and racing under the slats, James feels invigorated and vibrant and ready to win. Every time the Snitch skitters past a crack in the slat it gleams gold, gold like Galleons and Gryffindor and grace, and oh but Harry is full of grace when he moves. He _is_ like a Sun God, James decides, elbow jostling Harry’s side as he reaches far with his free hand. Broad and fit and so very luminous, life and livelihood coursing through his veins because he’s invigorated by his youth but not unrealistically so. Harry has seen tragedy and knows it well, yet he will persevere. The sun sets and rises and so shall Harry. So will James because he has no choice. It’s the way of the world. It’s the way of them, and that’s all they can be.

“Nghh,” Harry grunts beside him, pulling up from behind. 

His eyes dart to the support pole just ahead, the glittering Snitch hovering beside it, and Harry to his left. _Bugger this. I’m winning._ “Eurgh,” James pants, straining, reaching fingertips wanting almost there yes have it no wait maybe—

_Shit_ , James thinks, immediately followed by, _Fuck me, it hurts!_ as his head slams against the support poles. Harry then runs straight into him, elbows and hip bones digging into James’ skin as they both struggle to gain possession of the Snitch fluttering madly in the small space between them.

“Let go,” he says through gritted teeth, struggling to ward Harry’s fingers off.

“No,” Harry says petulantly, nudging a knee between James’ legs, likely trying to gain footing so he can throw his father off.

“Yes,” James grinds out, bound and determined to gain the upper hand. Lifting his hips off the pole, he bucks forward – thinking that ought to jostle Harry right off – and then freezes instantaneously. There’s a hardness digging into his hip and it most certainly is not Harry’s hipbone. Shit, he can feel himself getting—getting-- _Fucking hell, I can’t bloody_ think _it_.

James needs to move right now. He needs to move _right bloody now_ , let go of the Snitch, and head back for their blanket on the beach before this can get any sodding worse. But James can’t move. He can barely even breathe as Harry’s eyes, wide and greener than ever, bore into his.

James feels one of Harry’s hands curl around his waist, fingers pressing into his flesh so hard James knows there will be a mark. Then suddenly Harry is closer, much closer, and – dammit – their hips are grinding together, erections – _Christ, I’m fucking_ hard – colliding and rubbing together, making them grunt and groan beneath the pounding of the surf against sand.

_This is my son. My son. Lily’s boy_ , James thinks desperately, but thoughts cannot overcome the heat spiraling and coiling in the pit of his belly, tension mounting as his breathing becomes forced and shallow.

Harry’s hips twist against James’ almost violently.

“ _Harry_ ,” James chokes, and then he hears himself moaning, unable to get anything – like ‘Stop’ or ‘More’ or ‘Fuck’ – else out because Harry’s hand was moving along the fabric of his swimming trunks that covered James’ erection. “Can’t—”

“Can,” Harry nearly whimpers, taking hold of James’ hand and pressing it against his own erection. James feels it practically leap against his touch. A beat, and then they have both released the Snitch, the small golden ball trapped between their chests, wings beating frantically in time with the snapping of their hips.

A heavy, thick feeling begins to push from within and then he’s pulsing against his trunks, Harry’s name tumbling from his lips over and over.

“ _Dad_ ,” Harry rasps raggedly, sliding against James, wet heat spreading out and against his father.

“It’s just us now,” James whispers, wondering what in the hell he’s just done.

**Generativity vs Self absorption**

“Congratulations, Ron! Well played!” James claps the red-head on the shoulder, grinning wildly. Gryffindor has just soundly thrashed Ravenclaw 310 – 80, thereby securing the Quidditch Cup for themselves.

“Thanks, Mr Potter,” Ron grins, shrugging his rucksack up his shoulder as he kicks the changing room door shut behind him. 

“’s Harry still in there, or have I missed the little blighter completely?”

“Nah, you’ve not missed him. I reckon he’s staying in there as long as possible so he can make a grand entrance to the party later,” Ron laughs, and James joins in, knowing full well Ron’s taking the piss out of him. Harry is a brilliant Seeker but he absolutely hates all the attention after a match. More than likely he’s biding his time so that he’ll miss the party back in the Gryffindor common room completely.

“Thanks, Ron. Think I’ll just pop in and have a chat before I nip home.”

“No problem. See you over summer hols.” With a wave, Ron disappears round the bend, the spring in his step undeniable. 

Smiling to himself, James pushes open the door to the changing room and steps inside. Only one locker is open, a Quidditch kit folded neatly on the bench. It’s Harry’s and it absolutely reeks of sweat.

“Harry?” 

Tilting his head to one side, James can just make out the sound of running water. As though drawn, James moves toward it. He rounds a dividing wall and promptly stops in his tracks.

Just ahead are the communal showers, one of the taps on. The water is running, pounding against Harry’s back, some of the spray kicking up and slipping over the fronts of Harry’s shoulders and chest in thick rivulets.

Harry’s chest is broader than James remembered it from Brighton. More filled out. James’ eyes move lower, noting his son’s sculpted abdomen. To the right of his navel is a lion, fierce and proud, its jaws working in what is undeniably a roar. Lower still James’ eyes go, skimming over a thin trail of dark hairs leading to the place where his gaze stops – Harry’s cock. Harry’s smooth and pink cock, half-hard and bobbing slightly.

“ _God_ ,” James breathes, alternately awed at how grown his son is and disgusted that he’s bloody staring like some sort of perverted letch. 

“Dad,” Harry says, reaching behind to turn off the taps. James’ head jerks up, his eyes averting guiltily. 

Harry steps toward him and James has to fight every instinct to not just turn and walk away right then and there. “How long’ve you been standing there?”

“I came to say congratulations before I went back home,” James says automatically, avoiding Harry’s question. He lifts his gaze to meet Harry’s, trying valiantly to not focus on very graphic and just bloody _wrong_ thoughts whirring about madly in his mind – the two of them against the pole beneath the dock, the two of them together in this changing room, Harry’s hands braced against the tile as James-- _No. God, NO!_ “So congratulations,” he finishes, an uncomfortable hitch in his chest.

“Thanks.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. After James tosses him a towel, he wraps it round his waist. His expression turns serious. “Dad?”

“Yeah?” James hates how hoarse his voice sounds.

“I’ve something I need to talk to you about.”

James’ stomach bottoms out. He doesn’t have to ask Harry what he means by that; it’s written plainly all over his face.

“I’m your father, Harry,” James whispers.

“I know,” Harry says, eyes wide and searching, “and it’s you and me. Family.”

“Not like that,” James says firmly.

“Exactly like that,” Harry retorts, and James can almost swear Harry’s lower lip is trembling.

“You’re wrong,” James hears himself say, an acidic taste in his mouth.

“You’re scared.”

_I am._

**Wisdom**

James stands in Harry’s doorway, watching as his son crosses angrily from one side of the room to the other, occasionally stopping to toss something in a large rucksack.

“So you’re still not talking to me, I see,” James notes.

The only thing he gets in response is the tensing of Harry’s shoulders. 

They haven’t spoken more than a handful of words to one another since perhaps an hour after James picked him up from King’s Cross for the very last time. That was seven weeks ago. Not even on Harry’s birthday did they manage to make amends, though James had very much wanted to do so. Harry had spent that whole day either shooting a murderous glare in his direction or looking distraught and melancholy.

“Have fun with Sirius, then,” James says when it becomes apparent Harry is not going to break his silence. Shrugging, James pivots and starts down the hallway. Sirius is due within the hour to round up Harry; his belated birthday present to his godson is a motorbike tour about the countryside. 

“I will!” Harry’s voice shouts behind him.

Mouth twisting, James does not let himself turn around. Rather, he keeps walking toward the staircase. “Good,” he says evenly, feet carrying him swiftly down the stairs. Just as he reaches the landing, Harry’s hands shove roughly at James’ shoulder blades, causing him to stumble forward.

“It isn’t good!” Harry roars, and James whirls around to glare at him coldly.

“Don’t you dare do that again,” James warns, his patience long gone. 

“Or what, Dad?” Harry chokes, and then he pushes his way past James.

“Are you walking away from me?” 

“Yeah, I am,” Harry says defiantly, and James winces as the door to the back yard slams shut. 

He can’t let Harry go like that, leave for his trip being utterly furious at James.

Resolve setting in every last nerve, James follows Harry outside. It’s pissing down rain and he can barely see Harry in front of him. Taking off his glasses, James squints and is just able to make out Harry’s blurry form making a beeline for the large willow tree near the pond. Ducking his chin against his chest, James runs for it as well. 

The moment he’s under the protection of the branches and foliage, he buffs his specs dry with the hem of his shirt that isn’t sopping wet like the rest of him. “You’re not leaving like this,” he says, replacing the glasses and blinking as Harry comes into proper focus.

Dropping his rucksack on the grass, Harry raises his head high. “I am, Dad. I told you how I felt and what I wanted, and you—”

“And I what, Harry?” 

“And you don’t want me!” Harry says, voice strangled. 

He turns around and James finds himself staring hard at the slight dip between Harry’s shoulder blades.

Oh, but how wrong Harry is. James can almost laugh at the notion – he doesn’t want Harry? Far from it, and it’s been far from it for much longer than James cares to admit.

“But I do,” James says quietly.

Harry blinks. “You mean you…” He licks his lips. “You mean it, don’t you, Dad?”

“I mean it. We can talk about it when you get back from your trip.” The words sound so odd to James’ ears, but he knows that was his voice, those were his words. Harry had been right that day in the changing room. James was scared. He _is_ scared. But if he has learned anything in life, it’s that he can’t give into the fear. He simply has to work through it.

“No. Now,” Harry says insistently.

“But Sirius is soon going to be coming round,” James protests.

“I don’t care,” Harry says, and then he closes the gap between them by pressing his mouth against James’, winding his fingers in his father’s hair.

Part of James is screaming shrieking _begging_ for him to _stopceaseforgetiteverhappened_ , but it’s only a small part. The rest of him focusses on the feel of his son’s hand in his hair, focusses on slanting his mouth open for Harry’s tongue. James settles his hands around Harry’s waist, tugging him closer before moving one hand to slide under Harry’s trousers and pants. Nimble fingers begin to stroke his son’s cock, the rhythm as fast and teasing as the slide of Harry’s tongue against his own. Tightening his fist, James shifts gears, making slow, teasing work of each pull. Harry’s hips begin to snap forward impatiently, and suddenly James needs more than mouths and hands. He needs to feel more.

“Down,” he grunts, and Harry complies, falling to his knees. James moves behind him, hands sliding down the length of Harry’s arms and over to the waistband. In a few moment trousers and pants are tugged down and James pushes Harry forward onto his hands, yanking the offending fabric until it is pooled at his ankles. 

Two hands skirt up Harry’s thighs, and James feels himself harden as Harry’s back arches, accompanied by a keening mewl. 

“Daaaad,” Harry whines, and James leans forward to press a kiss to the nape of Harry’s neck, teeth scraping lightly.

“Talk to me, Harry.”

“I w-want you to….”

“What do you want?” James asks, his voice a strange half-moan. 

“I want to feel you. In me,” Harry breathes, and fuck but James could come right there if it wouldn’t ruin everything.

“Okay,” James breathes, nudging Harry’s legs apart. As one hand holds Harry’s hips in place, James runs his tongue over and around the fingers on the other. Running his fingers across Harry’s buttocks, James then presses two fingers against his entrance, pushing past the tight ring of muscle. Harry moans, pushing his arse back immediately. “Not yet.” Twisting his fingers inside Harry’s warm channel, James crooks them until they press against a small knot. James can Harry tense around his fingers. Draping himself over Harry’s back, James whispers, “Now,” into his ear.

Removing his hand, James positions himself against the tight pucker. A beat, and he propels himself forward.

_Shit_. Missed.

“Dad,” Harry groans, arse lifting toward him.

“Sorry,” James mutters, and he nudges Harry’s knees farther apart before pushing himself forward with a low groan. Harry is tight, so very tight and the resistance makes James feel a little dizzy and a whole lot brilliant. His hands find purchase on Harry’s back for leverage, his son’s skin hot and slick to the touch. Inch by inch he slowly moves forward until his balls slap against Harry’s arse.

“I need you,” Harry moans, rotating his hips and creating the most glorious fucking sensation _ever_.

James snaps. 

Lungs burning, James pulls out a minute bit. Rocks forward. Pulls out a minute bit again. Rocks forward again. 

Harry whimpers and bucks and James knows Sirius will be here any minute so they’ve got to hurry, they’ve got to finish, they’ve got to—

“Fuck—”

“Harry—”

“Harder. Please. _Dad_.”

Slamming into the slim body beneath him, James’ self control has been lost. He can’t help but to withdraw then drive forward and fuck fuck rut _Christ_ but Harry feels good. When James begins to kiss the side of Harry’s neck, he hears his son whisper his name over and over again. It makes James fuck him all the harder, Harry’s words from so long ago ringing in his ears -- _That’s all we can be, Dad,_ \-- and James knows it’s true. It’s just James and just Harry and that’s all there is to it, family and blood and familiarity. 

“Come inside me,” Harry moans, and that absolutely bloody well does it. James’ cock jerks hard, pounding against Harry’s arse until he’s spiraled completely out of control.

It isn’t until both he and his boy beneath him stop trembling that James realises he has nothing to be scared of. Harry may be grown up now and no longer a little boy, but Harry is and will always be his family. 

The roar of an engine can be heard from just down the road then, and James reluctantly pulls out. 

They make quick work of fixing their clothes. After James climbs to his feet, he offers a hand to Harry. Sirius rolls into view, cutting across the grass as the rain continues to pour down.

“Have a good time on your trip,” James says quietly as Sirius climbs down from his bike.

Tossing his rucksack to Sirius, Harry then turns to his father. “I’ll have an even better time when I get back.”


End file.
